


Tongue Tied

by vulpesvulpex



Series: One-Hundred Ways [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvulpex/pseuds/vulpesvulpex
Summary: He wants the view of the lake, and maybe the town, and a hundred pillows and endless sleepy afternoons. Sinks be damned. He wants it all, right now, right here, with him.





	Tongue Tied

 

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, but Derek still can’t handle the dripping faucet two doors down. It’s not like it’s a new thing, either. He’s given their neighbors - the Minyut’s - a solid month to fix it. They should have fixed it by now anyways. It’s hundreds of dollars down the drain,  _ literally _ , a year. Point being: Derek shouldn't have to listen to the little _plink plink plinks_. He pays rent, he minds his business. It should just be common courtesy for the neighbors to accommodate everyone in the building (including supernaturally inclined listeners who have their heartbeats memorized and a fist that could break bricks).

He tells all of this to Stiles one afternoon that morphs into a nights stay, that goes into weeks of the two of them, just the two of them, curled up in bed. Even here, in the soft scent of them, tangled and woven together over the past years of doing exactly this: lying, being at peace. He can smell their scent: something bright, a little citrusy, like sweat somehow, and warm musk and cinnamon. He doesn’t know where it comes from - in all their years, he has never seen Stiles buy anything cinnamon, and it’s definitely not him. Normally, the store-bought cinnamon flavors or scents are fake or too much. But this single hint of it: he barely catches it. 

But he catches it now, follows it to Stiles’s hairline and drops a kiss to his temple.

“What?” Stiles had his hands fisted around the remote, eyes wide and strangely doe-like, unminding of the attention. He’s never minded, but less so lately. Derek thinks it’s him getting old, getting soft (hint: he’s fallen off the deep end years ago, so who is he to talk), but Stiles doesn’t believe him. 

“Rent is due on Thursday.” He mumbles, arm looping around his shoulders, his ears still catching the barely-there  _ plink plink plink _ of the sink. His skin always has a strange chill to it, just on the surface, and he holds it just then. His hand covers the ball of his shoulder, then down his arm. The other is busy plucking the remote out of his hands. He hates The Fosters.

“I was watching that!” He yanks his arm from underneath Derek’s, reaching blindly. He can’t help but laugh as he gets his hands around the remote and yanks, but only pulls Derek’s hand closer. He looks up through dark lashes, eyes blazing. “What? Is it the rent thing?” 

“Kind of. I also fucking hate The Fosters.” He shrugs, lets his hand get pulled into Stiles side, under the blanket and reslishesd in the warmth it provides; Stiles insists on the place running cold twenty-four-seven. It doesn’t bother him much, but he hates the cold when he’s trying to relax.

“What is it?” Stiles is twisting his body now, angling Derek’s arm underneath his back, trying to distract him. He broke his arm this way once; felt bad for it for a month before Derek accidentally dropped a coffee mug onto his big toe and broke his big toe and the one beside it.

“I was thinking,” Stiles pauses for just a moment, big brown eyes watching, sensing for something. Derek takes a second to deliberate, the half-assed idea that’s become a regular thought every day for the past week - for the past year, to be honest. Right after they got together it was all he could think of. “You should move in with me.”

Stiles releases the remote, sort of surprising him in the process. Derek watches his eyes roam all over his face, down to his chest and then to the little bedroom they’re in. He doubts that Stiles can see much: it’s dark besides the light from the TV, and the commercial that flickers on by is dark.

He finally reaches back, flicks the bedside table light on. Light floods the room but no obnoxiously, not bright, but lightening; Stiles face is lit by the shadows of his cheekbones, his forehead, the slope of his nose and the bow of his lips. He looks almost tired, haggard, but strangely young at the same time.

The dam breaks, and the protective shield his tense shoulders had drawn fall. He cracks a grin, as easy as breathing, and leans over to put his hands on Derek’s cheeks. He’s suddenly so warm, hands almost clammy. 

“Why now?” 

Distantly, he hears the p _ link plink plink plink _ , but all that he can hear right now is Stiles. His energetic heartbeat, slamming in his chest, but he can tell the difference: he’s excited, happy, loving. Shining, beautiful Stiles, eyes crinkling from the smile that’s beginning to stretch his lips tight. 

“No reason,” And Stiles is still laughing because he must be able to tell, probably still remembers Derek telling him earlier that morning about the “fucking neighbors and their stupid bills.” 

Stiles is still laughing when Derek crawls over closer, hating his - their - queen size bed suddenly. He’s still laughing even when Derek closes the distance between their faces until they’re barely a hair's width apart. He quiets then, fingers reaching up to the small hairs at the back of his neck where it curls. Derek is suddenly shy and happy because this right here - this is something. This is more of a promise than all the dramatic kisses covered in blood and angry fights because they care for each other. This is a promise on a document, a cosign, money laid on a deed.

He doesn’t want another apartment for fucks sake. He wants a big house in the middle of the preserve, not too far from the old house, but still far enough where he won’t catch wind of the ash that still lingers, even after years of them being gone. He wants the view of the lake, and maybe the town, and a hundred pillows and endless sleepy afternoons. Sinks be damned. He wants it all, right now, right here, with him.

“Can I kiss you?” Stiles interrupts him, lips hovering.

And they do. 


End file.
